


Hang High the Raven Banner

by jinxed_wood



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 07:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinxed_wood/pseuds/jinxed_wood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joe watches on, as Methos tries to keep the peace between two Immortals in order to honour a promise made to Rebecca...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hang High the Raven Banner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chibiko](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Chibiko).



> Written for the Chibiko, as part of the hlh_shortcuts ficathon on LJ.

  


**From the annals of Rebecca the Wise, chronicled by Leofwine of Northampton (991 – 1041), and translated from Old English by Joseph Kennedy (1892- 1971).**

**Weod monaþ, by the local calendar (August, 1014).**

The sun was already drawing down on the horizon when our Queen, the Lady Ælfgifu, arrived at the Abbey. I could tell by my Lady Rebecca’s countenance, that the visit was unexpected but, with her customary grace and good will, she bid the Queen welcome.

Rooms were made ready for the Lady Ælfgifu and her servants, and her liegemen were bedded in the stables with the horses. My Lady Rebecca did bid me to wait on her in her chambers and, when I entered, I noticed that none of the Queen’s servants, or the Lady Rebecca’s, were in attendance, and that the Lady Rebecca and our Queen were in deep conversation. I dutifully took note of their words as I poured their wine.

It did not take me long to ascertain the nature of the conversation. Our Queen suspected that her husband, King Canute, was thinking of taking Lady Emma of Normandy’s hand in marriage, thus jeopardising her status in Canute's court as his first consort. For a moment, I was shocked, and then wondered why I should be. It was well known that many of the King’s men were Christian converts and found his marriage to a pagan distasteful. Many even questioned the validity of their marriage.

The Queen had provided our King with an heir but, in these uncertain times, one heir wasn’t enough. She needed to provide him with a measure of surety. Svein's birth had been difficult, however, and it had only been the quick hands of the good Lady Rebecca that had stayed her passage into the next life.

“Nevertheless,” the Lady Rebecca said calmly. “You shall provide him with another son.”

I watched as our Queen bit her lip. "But how?" she asked. "You know, as well as I, that Svein’s birth left me unable to have more children."

The Lady Rebecca gestured at me to pour our Queen more wine, as she sat back in her chair. “It is well that it is the tradition for pregnant women to be cloistered," she said. "It shall work to our advantage. You shall bring your husband to your bed, and declare yourself pregnant in two moons time. I shall then remind Canute of your last difficult pregnancy, and ask that you be removed to the Abbey for the remainder of it.”

The Queen shook her head. “It may not be enough,” she said. “The Lady Emma is proven fertile from her previous marriage.”

Lady Rebecca leaned forward, and touched our Queen’s hand. “What of it, Ælfgifu?” she asked. “When all is said and done, you have already provided your King with a son and heir. The treaties and lands that Emma of Normandy would bring to the marriage are all well and good, but no more prestigious than the one’s you brought to the marriage bed. He may marry Emma, but you will still be Queen – and doubly so, if you can provide him with a second son.”

The Queen looked at the Lady Rebecca with large, trusting eyes. "You... you would do this for me?"

"But of course, Ælfgifu. You are my dear friend and my Queen. How could I not?"

"And you are my most trusted companion," Ælfgifu admitted softly. "What would I do without you, Rebecca?"

My Lady smiled. “Then it is settled. Do not worry, Ælfgifu, all will be well.” She turned to me. “You may leave us now, Leofwine, please tell Lady Ælfgifu servants that she has need of them in her rooms.”

I bowed. “As my Lady commands.”

She smiled at me; a beauteous vision. “I hardly think that I need to tell you I crave your discretion, Leofwine.”

“But of course, my Lady,” I told her, “No word of this shall pass my lips.” And my heart felt heavy, for even though I spoke the truth, I spoke it meanly. While it is true that no word of this shall pass my lips, here I sit, writing them down for all eternity, so that my future betters shall know what came to pass here.

 

**Jardin des Tuilleries, Spring, Paris 2010**

It was a warm and balmy spring day in Paris. Some might consider that statement an oxymoron, but sometimes the city really could surprise you.

Methos smiled as he relaxed into a sprawl on the park bench; it wasn’t holy ground but it was the first sunny Saturday of the year, which meant the gardens were alive with people. The old saying had a lot of truth to it: safety in numbers - and he was taking full advantage of it. Not that he was really in danger of being challenged. He had known the Immortal he was waiting for since he was a babe. Methos closed his eyes and waited for the familiar sensation of another immortal drawing near. It wasn’t before he felt the familiar tension crawl up his spine.

His eyes snapped open and he watched the Immortal stride across the grass towards him. Tall, even by modern day standards, with fair hair tied back in a loose ponytail, and strong, high cheekbones, he looked exactly like what he was - a Viking in a Armani suit. Given enough motivation, he probably could still cleave your head off in a single blow, and damn the tailoring.

“Hello, Harry,” he drawled, as the immortal drew near. “Long time, no see.”

“Michael,” Harry said. His voice was one that managed to be both soft and deep at the same time. “May I sit?”

Methos raised an eyebrow at that. “Of course,” he said. “Why the sudden formality?”

Harry shrugged. “I wasn’t sure of my welcome,” he said quietly. “Now that Rebecca is dead.

_Ah._ Methos eyed him narrowly. “I take it you’ve visited her grave?” he asked.

Harry pulled a face. “Will our graves carry the same lies?” he asked.

Methos gave him a long, considering look. He didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. “You already have a grave with your name on it, Harry, remember?”

“How could I forget?” he muttered, as his eyes scanned the gardens. What he was expecting to find? Methos wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“You know, I am swiftly coming to the conclusion that this isn’t just a social visit, Harry,” he said, with a levity he wasn’t feeling.

Harry’s eyes swerved back to him, and there was a glint in them that Methos didn’t like. “I’m looking for him, Michael,” he said. “I think it’s time.”

Methos gave him a look of exasperation. “I thought we left that sleeping dog lie a long time ago. At least, that is what you told Rebecca.”

“Rebecca is dead,” he said shortly.

“So what? The promise still stands, kid...or are you going to dishonour her grave?”

Harry gave Methos a flat stare. “You don’t believe in honour.”

“No, but I believed in Rebecca – and I thought you did too.”

“I didn’t start this, Michael, never forget that. It was you and Rebecca who forged this path for me.”

“Oh, poor little Harry,” Methos drawled. “My heart bleeds for you. Is your pride stinging?”

“You think that is why I came here – pride?” Harry snapped. “Sometimes, I wonder if you ever really knew me!” He shot to his feet, and Methos suppressed a sigh. He already knew what was coming but, for Rebecca’s sake, he gave it another go.

“It’s been a millennia, Harry, why don’t you let it lie?” he cajoled. “I know a good bar where we could—”

“If you won’t help me, then I’ll find him myself!” he said. “I don’t know why I came to you in the first place. I must have been out of my mind!” He stalked off across the grass, but he still couldn’t resist one last parting shot. “And just so you’ll know. It was him who broke faith first, not me!”

Methos gave his departing back a rueful shrug. “He was so much sweeter when he was a babe,” he muttered, smirking as he remembered the expression on Rebecca’s face when he first brought Harry, in swaddling clothes, to her door. The look of shock and consternation on her face was one of his better memories.

He felt a pang of loss. It had been fifteen years since Rebecca died, and he still missed her ways; part warrior, part wise woman, compassionate to the last...

It had killed her in the end.

 

**The Abbey, England, 1015**

“Dear Gods, Methos; when I asked you to find me a child, I meant a mortal one," Rebecca hissed under her breath.

"Well, it’s not as if I did it on purpose," Methos protested. "The opportunity just presented itself!"

She looked at him as if he’d just sprung another head. “Are you mad? What in Hades possessed you to do such a thing?”

The infant began to fuss, and Methos smirked as she absently took the infant from him and began to rub his back. “Just look at his little face,” he cajoled. “How could you say no to that?”

“With great ease, and well you know it. We cannot have an Immortal on the throne!” she said.

“Why not? It’s not as if it would be the first time—”

“And do you remember what happened then? That is one game I do not want to play.”

“We cannot be sure history will repeat itself—”

“The answer is no, Me—”

The door behind them creaked, and they both turned to see who was there. It was Ælfgifu, Canute’s wife. “Is that him? Is that the child you promised me?” she asked, and Methos could see the indecision on Rebecca’s face.

“Yes,” Methos said, before she could object. “Yes, this is him. This is your son.”

 

**Joe’s Blues Bar, Paris, 2010**

“You’ll never guess what I saw today.”

Joe looked up from the scotch he was pouring, and gave Nick Donahue, Methos’s watcher, a wry look. “Amaze me,” he drawled.

“He met up with another immortal,” Nick said smugly, giving him a shit eating grin.

Joe sighed. “And?” he prompted.

“And I called it in, and got the name of the other Immortal.” Nick took a slow sip of his scotch, eking out the moment, and Joe ground his teeth together, but kept his peace. He knew why the kid was doing it. Seven years may have passed, but the revelation that Joe had known who Adam Pierson really was, all along - and hadn’t shared the information - still smarted.

“So, are you going to tell me, or are you just going to nurse that scotch out all night?” Joe eventually asked, giving in.

Nick finished off his drink, and slid the glass over for another shot. “Harold Harefoot,” he said cheerfully, and Joe nearly spilled the scotch onto the counter.

“Shit,” he burst out. “Do you think he knows?”

“You tell me.”

Joe gave him a long look. “Contrary to popular opinion, the old man doesn’t give me a blow by blow account of everything he does.”

“Maybe not,” Nick said, with a shrug. “But it’s safe to say that you know more than what goes into the Chronicles.”

Joe ignored the accusation in his words, as his mind wandered back to the paperwork he’d waded through that morning. He hadn’t remembered the name coming up in his new arrivals pile. It must have been a last minute decision. “Let me get back to you,” he said.

Nick answered him with a nod, and then downed his second shot. “Well, must be off,” he said. “I’ve got a funny feeling I’m going to be busy the next few days.”

“You and me both, kid,” Joe muttered under his breath, as his eyes followed the Watcher out the door.

 

**From the annals of Harald the Harefooted, chronicled by Aude of Norway (998 – 1027), and translated from Old Norse by Annabelle Mayfair (1823- 1867),**

**Hreð monaþ, by the local calendar (March, 1017)**

Harold is a child of sweet disposition, without the pridefulness of his father or the harshness of his mother. He is so unlike Ælfgifu’s natural born son, Svein, that I truly wonder why the rumours of his birthright haven’t become more rampant than they are. As it stands, however, the tale of his dubious parentage have become rife throughout the King’s household, no doubt fuelled by the Kings new wife, and aided by the keep’s seneschal. There is no proof of it, of course; but, with a heavy heart, I fear I must tell you that the child’s future is in question.

I doubt that my new charge will reach full manhood before his first death and, although it goes against the dictates of my calling, I find myself wishing I could come to his aid.

May the Gods give me strength to stay my hand, and stay true to my vows, despite the compassion I find in my own heart.

 

 

**Joe’s Blue’s Bar, Paris, 2010**

It was at times like this that Joe really hated being out of the field. Sure, he was still nominally Duncan Macleod’s watcher but, for all extensive purposes, he’d been put out to pasture under a huge pile of paperwork. All of France, as well as Britain, Switzerland, Morocco, and Spain, fell under his jurisdiction, and that was a lot of Watchers and Immortals.

He intended to call Methos in a while, but first he needed to brush up on his facts. Harry O’Hare, AKA Harald Harefoot, was raised as the second son of Canute and Ælfgifu and, for a short while, was King of England.

Needless to say, he died under suspicious circumstances, and his supposed body was buried at Westminster. It was then exhumed by his half brother, Harthacnut, upon his arrival on English soil. His brother had intended to behead Harold’s body and toss it into dirt. An intention that spoke volumes, and Joe wondered how much his half brother knew about Harold’s true nature at that time - more than he should have, that’s for sure.

Harold had a unique position in the annals of the Watchers, and it was not by way of his royal upbringing - that was more common than you’d think. No, Harold’s notoriety was due to the fact that he was one of the few Immortal’s whose life was documented while he was still mortal. From the moment he was brought to Ælfgifu’s bedchamber as a squalling infant, every detail of his life was recorded; first by Rebecca’s watcher, Leofwine of Normandy – or Leofwine the Lovesick, as many watcher researchers jokingly referred to him – and then by his own assigned Watcher, Aude of Norway. Harold was also referred to in the Chronicles of Meila, of course, but as he didn’t have a Watcher assigned to him until after his true nature was revealed, during an assignation he had with Rebecca...

Joe’s mind tangled on something; a memory of Meila’s description. His fingers glided over the laptop’s keys with practised ease, until he found the chronicle he was looking for: the Lady Rebecca, 1010 to 1020. He muttered under his breath as he tried to wade through Leofwine’s prose. Joe Kennedy, who translated the chronicle from its original Old English, in the early fifties, had done his best to rid the chronicle of its more florid passages, especially those that dwelled too long on Rebecca’s ‘milky skin’, but one couldn’t excise too much of the original text; the chance a mistake might be made were too high... and he had found the passage.

_It was a dark and stormy evening, full of malignant portent, when the good Lady Rebecca was called upon by another of the Immortal kind. At first, I feared that he was after my charge’s head, for his features had an ill favoured aspect, but she greeted him amiably, with a kiss on his gaunt cheek. My lady named him Meili, although I know of no such Immortal, and I suspect he was originally known by another name. It was with some horror that I realised she intended to entertain him in her chambers that night, and I can only surmise that he has some unnatural hold on her, for surely she could not find his features comely. He is tall, true, but he has no brawn or strength to his frame. Also, his hair has no curl or brightness to it, and is limp and dark, and as for his enormous nose—_

 

Joe looked up from the screen. “The little bastard!”

“What can I say, it seemed a good idea at the time,” said a voice behind him.

Joe jumped in his chair, and then let out a curse. “Sneaking into my office again,” he asked, snidely, as Methos came into view, and he felt his heart rate settle back to its normal pace.

“Well, it’s hardly sneaking if I bring the good brandy with me,” he said, raising a bottle of the amber liquid.

Joe eyed the label and sniffed. “You know where the glasses are,” he said. Methos produced the glasses from behind his back, and Joe rolled his eyes. “You’re a real comedian you know that?”

“Is it just me, or do I detect the slightest smidgeon of insincerity in your voice?” Methos asked.

“Oh, I don’t know, you tell me – Meili!”

Methos wrinkled his nose. “I never really liked that name, you know,” he said. “But Rebecca insisted on calling me that – what part, exactly, are you reading?” He glanced at the screen and let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, poor old Leofwine, he really hated my guts! Of course, I didn’t realise how much he hated them, until found myself reading Rebecca’s chronicles when...well, you know when.”

The ghost of Alexis seemed to drift in the air for a moment, and Methos seemed suddenly smaller. Joe sighed; he could never stay mad at him for long. He should work on that.

“Pull up a chair,” he muttered, “We need to talk.”

“Let me guess, Nick told you I met Harry today,” Methos said genially, as he sat down. “And you want to know all the gory details.”

Joe fixed him with steely stare. “His brother is in town, too,” he said.

“Half brother,” Methos corrected him lightly as he poured the brandy. “Trust me, that is a _very_ important distinction.”

“Yeah, yeah, Harthacnut was the son of Cnut and Emma of Normandy, while Harold was the illegitimate son of—”

“Ah, ah, that is you first mistake,” Methos interrupted dryly. “Harold was not illegitimate, neither was Svein, Cnut did marry their mother, after all.”

“Ah, but it wasn’t a church marriage,” Joe said. “It was a handfasting.”

“Joe, this was five centuries before the Council of Trent, there was no such thing as a church marriage. All marriages were civil in those days. You’ve been drinking the medieval kool-aid again.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“It means that Emma of Normandy’s little rewriting of history did a real number on Ælfgifu,” Methos said. “And do you realise how many students I’ve caught cadging from that little missive of hers, during my Watcher days? It wasn’t pretty, I can tell you.”

Joe sniggered. “Whatever you say, Professor Pierson,” he said.

Methos wrinkled his nose. “I’m just saying that the Watchers have one of the richest sources of eleventh century English history, right there in their own archives. They don’t need to rely on leave takings of a propaganda piece written for an insecure Queen.”

“So...she was insecure?” Joe asked curiously.

“She was absolute bitch,” Methos said. “But so was Ælfgifu, towards the end. That’s what fear does to you, and those two had a lot to be fearful of.”

“Because they were both lying about their children’s parentage,” said Joe.

Methos gave him a wry look. “And both of them were terrified of being found out,” he said. “By the time Cnut died, they were at each other’s throat...and their sons followed suit. It was a pretty mess.”

“It still is, from what I can see,” Joe muttered.

“Yes, Harry is on the warpath again, for some strange reason.”

Joe blinked. “You mean you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Two weeks ago, in Oslo. Harthacnut killed Harold’s adopted daughter.”

Methos’s face blanched. “Sigrid?” he asked softly.

“You knew her?” Joe asked.

“She would have been in her early seventies,” Methos said flatly. “Unable to fight back.” His eyes got that hard, calculating look that Joe had learned to recognise.

“Oh no, I’m not going to tell you anything,” he said. “I may be a mere mortal, but even I know it’s stupid to get in the middle of a family row.”

Methos gave him a long look. “Joe,” he said, eventually. “Did you know it was I who found Harold?”

“You know damned well I didn’t,” Joe said gruffly, mentally filing the snippet away. Maybe he could use it to keep Nick sweet.

“Well, I did,” Methos said, so softly that Joe almost had to strain to hear him. “Rebecca had asked me to find a suitable newborn foundling for Ælfgifu and, in those days, that was an easier task than you could possibly imagine. I had my pick of suitable children, but I found Harold in a small hamlet on the northern borders of Northumbria.” Methos caught his gaze. “There are foundlings, and there are foundlings, Joe,” he said. “There is the foundling that everyone knows is the issue of a servant and her liege, or the foundling left behind by a dead mother and a grieving father...and then there is the foundling that turns up in the dead of night, as if from nowhere. Tell me, did you ever read those stories about changelings when you were a child? Babies swapped for Fae or demons in the dead of night? Well, let me tell you, there’s nothing like a smothered child coming back to life, to feed a dark myth.”

Joe shivered, despite himself. “That’s why you took the child to Rebecca,” he said.

Methos took a sip of his brandy. “I figured that even if Rebecca decided to find Ælfgifu a mortal child instead, she would still find the boy a safe place to grow to adulthood.”

“I wonder if it was a similar moment of pity that brought Harthacnut to the throne,” Joe said aloud.

Methos’s mouth twisted. “Perhaps,” he said.

“Well, are you going to tell me the rest of the story, or are you going to continue glaring into the distance?” Joe asked acidly, as the silence began to drag on.

“I’m not glaring!”

_Oh yes you are, old man,_ Joe thought, but let it go. “So what are you going to do now?” he asked.

“Go track Harry down, I suppose, try and dissuade him.”

Joe looked at him through narrowed eyes. “Think that’ll work?”

Methos shrugged, getting to his feet. “It’s worth a shot,” he said. “I owe Rebecca that, at least... by the way, I don’t suppose you know where Harthacnut is, by any chance.”

The words were light and innocent, but Joe wasn’t fooled for an instant. “Sorry, can’t help,” he said flatly.

“Ah well, it was worth a try, Methos murmured. “I’ll see you around, Joe.”

Joe watched him leave before he reached for his cell. Methos was a friend, but this was one of those times when Joe was first and foremost a Watcher. “Nick,” he said, into the phone. “Keep your eyes peeled. This could get messy.”

 

**From the annals of Harald the Harefooted, chronicled by Aude of Norway (998 – 1027), and translated from Old Norse by Annabelle Mayfair (1823- 1867),**

**Halig monaþ, by the local calendar (September, 1025)**

I fear our King has taken leave of his senses. The slight he inflicted on our Lady Ælfgifu when he took that harlot from Normandy to his bed, and declared her his Queen, was foul enough; now he seeks to bring her to my Lady’s castle. Has he taken leave of his senses or does he have a darker purpose in mind?

Perhaps these are Harold’s final days. He is not yet seen ten summers, poor child. If this is how he is to die, then I may take his head myself; for my dear, sweet Harold should not suffer the torture of being an eternal child.

**Methos’s apartment, Spring, Paris, 2010**

The presence skittered along the edges of his senses, and Methos tilted his head and listened for the betraying footsteps as he slowly placed his beer bottle on the coffee table. He had left his blade propped up against the couch, ready for this moment, and he curled his hand around its pommel as he waited. It was most probably Harry, but it could also be the other one. The tap was gentle on the door.

“It’s open,” he called out, tensing as he got to his feet.

It swung open, revealing a rather rueful looking Harry perched on his doorstep. “Is it safe to come in?” he asked.

“Afraid that you might have worn out your welcome?” Methos teased. “It’s not exactly the first tantrum I’ve seen you throw, Harry...although, admittedly you were somewhat shorter the last time it happened.”

“It’s been a long week,” Harry said quietly.

“So I’ve heard,” Methos said. “I’m sorry about Sigrid. You should have told me; I would have come to the funeral.”

He shrugged, his weariness obvious. “It was a simple ceremony,” he said, “And I had other matters to tend to.”

Methos eyed him warily. “Have you found him, yet?”

Harry looked at him sourly. “My dear brother is keeping a low profile,” he said, as he crossed the threshold.

“That won’t last for long,” Methos muttered, before he caught himself.

Harry’s eyes sharpened. “You know where he is?” he asked.

“Harry, we’ve been here before. Nothing has changed,” Methos warned.

“Perhaps not, but I’d sure as hell feel better,” Harry said. “That bastard has been a thorn in my side since before I could walk.”

“Not exactly his fault.”

“Maybe not at the beginning, but we both know how much he took his mother’s words to heart.”

Methos groaned. “You do realise you’re picking over bones that are nearly a millennia old?.”

“Sigrid’s bones are somewhat warmer than that, Michael.”

Methos sighed. “I don’t know why I’m even bothering.”

“Don’t you?” Harry asked quietly. “I do... you’ve always had a soft spot for Rebecca.”

Methos gave him a long look. “I’d rather you didn’t do that,” he said.

“Then tell me where he is, Michael,” he pressed.

“Sorry, I can’t. This is one promise I’m going to keep.”

“A promise didn’t stop him from breaking into Sigrid’s home and slitting her throat, did it?”

Methos regarded him silently, before saying, “You’re welcome to stay here, if you want.”

Harry shook his head, “No, I think it’s better if we place some distance between us at the moment,” he said, as he headed for the door once more. “Don’t you think?”

Methos watched the door close and let his sword drop onto the couch. He had forgotten he’d been grasping it until Harry had left. That thought, alone, made him uneasy.

 

**From the annals of Rebecca the Wise, chronicled by Leofwine of Northampton (991 – 1041), and translated from Old English by Joseph Kennedy (1892- 1971).**

**Ærra Liða monaþ, by the local calendar (June, 1040)**

It is with great reluctance that I put pen to paper, as I fear I have grave news. Words I have overheard, while in service to the Lady Rebecca, have led me to believe that Harthacnut may be aware of Harold’s true nature.

As I wrote to you before, Rebecca had replaced the reawakened body of Harold with the remains of a departed servant from the Abbey, Hemain. She had though she was doing him a service, burying him in state on hallowed ground, but when Harthacnut’s men landed, they exhumed his remains and cast them into the fen. It is a dishonour that is pagan in its origins, although none of them would admit it.

My Lady Rebecca had heard of Harthacnut’s intentions, from a good alderman at Westminster, and we swiftly followed their path. The Lady Rebecca’s tender heart could not allow Hemain’s remains to be discarded in such an ignominious fashion, and she insisted we dismount out horses as we drew nearer, so that we would not garner unwanted attention as we crept upon them.

I think it’s no lie to say that the Lady Rebecca was as surprised as I at what we found. Neither of us had expected to find Harthacnut himself at the site. He had a harried air about him, and his beard was unkempt. His horse had an unhealthy sheen to his coat, as if he had been ridden hard, and there was an uneasiness to Harthacnut’s manner; perhaps the stirrings of a guilty conscience.

"Did you get his head?" Harthacnut asked of his men. "My mother said I would not be truly rid of him unless I severed his head!"

One of his housecarl’s held up the decaying head of poor Hemain. "Here it is, my lord, his spirit will indeed find it difficult to rest. Odin’s curse upon him!"

"I'll have none of you pagan muttering," Harthacnut snapped, as he eyed it. "I only need your compliance."

The housecarl bowed his head. "Of course, my lord," he said uneasily. "What do you wish of me? Shall I burn the body?"

Harthacnut sniffed as he looked down at the Thames's high tide, and the fen around him. We both ducked low to avoid his gaze. "He is not worthy of our time," he eventually said. "Throw him into the reeds; it is a fitting end for that misbegotten issue of a pagan whore. Here lies King Harold: of uncertain birth, and unknown burial!"

His men laughed dutifully as the housecarl threw the head into a clump of reeds, and then they mounted their horses. We waited until they’d ridden out of sight and we could no longer hear their hooves.

I could not help but acknowledge the thoughtful look on my lady face when she stepped onto the track and peered at the horizon, as if she could still see Harthacnut and his men. “I see trouble, Leofwine,” she said to me softly. “It might be best that you remember that, and pass it on.” She threw me a clear eyed gaze that caused me to shiver.

But the moment soon passed and the Lady Rebecca stepped off the road to look for the remains of Hemain. "We shall move the body, and give him a true burial," she said. "He deserves better than this."

Hemain had always been a good and trusted servant to my Lady, so I could only nod my agreement.

“Good,” she said. “Please keep poor Hemain company while I fetch a cart.” And she gave me such a sad and tender smile, that I wondered if I should ever see her again - but I did. The Lady Rebecca always kept her promises, and she was back within the hour with a cart.

As you may have already surmised, however, Harthacnut’s knowledge of the correct way to dispatch an Immortal is not the only grave tidings I have to impart. I have come to the inevitable conclusion, from what is said and unsaid, that the Lady Rebecca may have knowledge of my calling, and so I solemnly ask to be replaced in my position as soon as it is prudent.

I fear my heart may break at this sad juncture.

**Basilique du Sacré-Cœur, Spring, Paris, 2010**

Harthacnut had been easier to track down than Methos had expected; his taste for fine food and soft sheets had betrayed him. His eyes absently studied the floor as he sat at the agreed pew, ignoring the tourists milling around him as he waited. It was a painfully busy rendezvous point, and he smiled mirthlessly. One would think that Harthacnut didn’t trust him... smart boy.

And then there it was, the steady thrum of another immortal’s presence. Methos’s eyes scanned the tourists as he looked for his target. He was standing about twenty feet away, watching him. “So _you’re_ why he chose Paris,” Harthacnut said lightly, as he closed the distance and sat down beside him. “I should have known – what name do you use, nowadays?”

“Brian Hamilton,” Methos lied promptly. “You?”

“Eric Knowles,” Harthacnut lied, just as smoothly.

Methos’s lips thinned in a grim smile. “I need you to leave Paris.”

“Or what? You’ll issue me with a stern warning?” Harthacnut mocked.

“You shouldn’t have gone after Sigrid.”

“On the contrary, I should have done it sooner. After all, think how much harsher his grief would have been if she’d died younger. As it was, she already had one foot in the grave”

“She didn’t deserve that.”

“What the hell has _that_ got to do with it? Did you stop to consider what _I_ deserved when that bastard and Rebecca came for my life? Did I deserve to die young, and become Immortal?”

“You were getting out of control; you had to be stopped,” Methos said.

“Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that,” Harthacnut said snidely. “But, deep down, you know the truth. It was revenge and jealousy, pure and simple. He craved his old life – my life – and he couldn’t stand to see me enjoy what he had lost.”

“It was never as simple as that, Harthacnut.”

“Perhaps not, but it’s close enough,” he said. “Leave me alone, old man, you don’t want to be on my list.”

Methos took a breath, and then leaned close. “Go after him and I’ll kill you, Harthacnut, promise or no promise.”

“He laughed. “My God, you’re still honouring that idiotic promise you made Rebecca? You _are_ an idiot.”

And with that he left, not looking behind him, and Methos felt something cold settle in his stomach.

**Lambeth, England, 1042**

Methos looked on, his back against the chill stone wall, as the boy repeated the same refrain he’d been using since morning.

“You poisoned me, you bitch!”

“A harsh death, I know,” Rebecca said crisply. “But it was all we could come up with at short notice.”

“How dare you! I am your King!”

“Correction, you _were_ my King. Now you’re an Immortal.”

“No! No! I refuse to hear this. I am Harthacnut, King of England and the Norselands. I shall go back and tell them what you did!”

“Be my guest – but don’t expect me to rescue you from the pyre when they burn you as a demon or a witch.”

Harthacnut eyes narrowed as his eyes took in her face, and then slid to Harold’s. “Enjoying this, are we? My congratulations, you have brought me down to your level at last!”

Obviously you weren’t listening properly, _brother_ , our mothers lied to us. We were never truly meant to be kings in the first place.

“I’ll kill you,” Harthacnut said flatly. “May the Gods hear my pledge, I shall strike you down, and feed your flesh to the Ravens.”

Harold smirked. “How very unchristian of you,” he mocked.

Enough,” Rebecca snapped. “I will have no more of this. Harold, I have arranged for you to travel with Meili for a while. He is an... interesting companion, he will have much to teach you.”

“Wait? I do?” Methos asked. This was the first time _he_ had heard of it.

Rebecca threw him a long, pleading look. “Yes, you do,” she said.

“And what of me?” Harthacnut, demanded. “Or do you expect me to lounge around this ruin for all eternity?”

Rebecca pursed her lips, as if she actually giving his words some thought. “An interesting suggestion, but I was thinking of something a little more practical; a new culture and a new country would be my first suggestion, and I shall aid you in this... but, first, I want you to make me a promise. She glanced over her shoulder at Harold. “Both of you,” she said firmly.

Harold’s eyes widened as he realised what she was about to ask. “You cannot ask that of me,” he said.

“Oh but I can, and I will,” she said flatly. “You’re both young and headstrong, and I know that you’d like nothing better than to kill each other, but this is not a dispute that should be settled by the game.”

“You ask too much of me,” Harold said. “Too much.”

Rebecca shrugged her shoulders in answer. “Perhaps,” she said. “But I ask it just the same.”

Methos shook his head silently. _Oh, Rebecca,_ he thought, _This is not going to end well._

 

**Joe’s Blues Bar , Spring, Paris, 2010**

 

The bar was closed and cleaned, and the last of the Watchers in his local area had made their daily contact. His bed was calling to him and he was weary to the bone, so he wasn’t sure what impulse drove him to poke his head into his office and check his email before he went to bed - but when he saw the message waiting in his inbox, he wished he’d waited ‘til morning.

In the morning, it would have been over, in the morning he could have pleaded ignorance, but now he knew what would happen.

It was official. Harold Harefoot has lost his head... and, by morning, Harthacnut will have lost his. Joe knew this with a certainty that surprised him. Maybe he knew the old man better than he’d thought. Just to be sure, though, he checked his last login time on the Watcher database. Just as he suspected, his database address had been used only a few hours before, in this very room. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and found the brandy gone; the cheap bastard.

For a long few minutes, Joe just sat there, eyeing the screen, and then his phone. First, he thought of ringing Methos, and then Nick... and, for one mad moment, he thought of ringing Mac.

Eventually, though, he got to his feet and walked out of the office, turning out the light as he left the room. He was a Watcher. Time to watch.

**Heathrow Airport, London 2010**

The sun still hadn’t made it over the horizon when Harthacnut walked out of the terminal and towards the long term parking spaces. The lighting flickered in the deserted parking lot, but he ignored it, his good cheer too great to be diminished by something like faulty wiring. At last it was done, he was rid of his bastard brother, free to be truly himself and not just a mirror of his past. It felt _damned_ good.

His steps echoed on the concrete, and if there was something curiously dissonant about the sound, it did not register as a threat... not until Harthacnut felt the hard thrill of another Immortal’s presence. He stopped in his tracks. “Come out. I know you’re there.”

Nobody answered.

Harthacnut felt his mouth go dry. His sword was still sealed in its transport tube. The precious moments it would take to open it could cost him his life.

But it wasn’t as if he had a choice.

He reached for tube, and tried to rip through the sealant tape with his nails as he ran for the nearest exit. He thought he heard the scuff of a boot on concrete to his right, and he served to avoid being taken from behind. He could see the light of fire escape ahead, and he made a dash for it, barrelling through the door—

All he saw was a flash, a blade in the corner of his eyes; it bit into his neck and sliced through cleanly. There was no warning or introduction, no pretty pretence. There was just the end.

He died.

**Joe’s Blues Bar, Paris, The Next Day**

“And so ends the tale of Harald and Hathacnut,” Joe muttered, as he pressed the send button on his report, and leaned back in his chair. Nick eyed him over his malt whiskey.

“Methos gave me the slip again, you know,” he drawled. “I lost him at Heathrow.” He paused. “One of these days he’s not going to come back.”

Joe smirked. “Yeah, one day,” he agreed.

“You don’t seem too cut up about that,” Nick said.

“I gave up worrying about the inevitable a long time ago,” Joe said. “There’s too much paperwork involved.” He waved at the pile on his desk.

Nick pulled a face. “Which reminds me - it was Methos who killed him. You know it, I know it...so why did you write ‘persons unknown’?”

Dawson quirked an eyebrow. “Did you see him do it? Do you have any solid primary evidence?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But nothing, kid,” Joe said quietly. “Leave it alone.”

Nick slumped into his chair. “One of these days I’m going to catch him on film,” he grumped. “The great Methos taking a head. It’s only a matter of time.”

“You’d better hope not, kid,” Joe said dryly, as he closed his laptop. “The old man fights dirty.”

 

**The Scottish Highlands, A Week Later**

The air was bitterly cold, and Methos wrapped his coat tightly around himself as he got out of his car; spring hadn’t come yet to the Highlands. He hauled his backpack onto his shoulder and pulled out a shovel from the back seat, and then strolled down the hill towards his destination. The site he had picked was miles away from anywhere and hadn’t been populated since the clearances, according to Mac.

It had seemed the perfect place to bury the truth.

The stone was exactly like he’d ordered, despite the misgivings of the stonemason on the phone after he’d faxed him the drawings. He began to dig at its base and was four feet down before he was satisfied. He pulled out an urn from his backpack, and then the other one, and then he emptied them both into the hole. It took him another half an hour to fill the dirt back in and pat it down. Joe and Mac would probably think he’d lost his marbles if they’d caught him doing this, but he knew Rebecca would have approved.

He leaned on the shovel to catch his breath, and looked at the newly cut runes on the stone with some satisfaction. The mason had done a good job.

_Here lies Harald and Haracnut, brothers in name, if not in deed and blood. May they find the peace in death, as they could not find in life._

Methos traced the lines with his fingers, feeling the depth of the grooves. They would last a long time, maybe even longer than they had lived. “See, Harry?” he said softly, “Your gravestone tells the truth, after all.”

**THE END**


End file.
